


Sun

by tobylove (orphan_account)



Series: Ronnie & Clyde [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Author loves to chat in the Comments, Childhood Friends, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Smut, Past Relationship(s), Platonic Soulmates, but i lied again, ok so one shots are fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-11 23:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12946113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tobylove
Summary: the three things that hung Richie up; that made him feel the worst.it seems like sometimes best friends share the same heart.





	Sun

**Author's Note:**

> yooo so i lied again. finals? bump that. (i'll still study tho bc failing? bump that.)
> 
> i have another fic idea because.... she knows who she is// so i'm going to start it this weekend. i hope you guys enjoy these one shots today and tomorrow! sorry for these extended metaphors yikes

i. He didn't even notice that he was pacing until Eddie had pointed it out. "Why are you pacing, honey?" he had said. "Are you nervous? That's making _me_ nervous." So he stopped immediately. He loved his little Eddie, so much. Everything about him was just so perfect and ethereal. He looked at him, sitting down in his desk chair, and the blinds cast bright and dark stripes on his face. His eyes glimmered like two golden coins in the sun. He _was_ the sun. He was heavenly. He was an angel.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Spaghetti," he said. He could feel the tenseness in Eddie's shoulders, he could _feel_ it, because he knew that Eddie thought he was pacing because he was thinking about Stan. But honestly, he didn't know why he was pacing. He didn't know _what_ he was thinking about, even. So he went up behind Eddie, taking his shoulders and lightly pushing them down, and he planted a kiss where little Spaghetti's jaw and neck met. It got him a giggle, and that made him happy enough.

Eddie pushed the chair out from the desk and lightly sat his on his bed, as if to not mess up anything because it was so _pristine._ Everything about his room, everything about his life, was so _pristine._ His clothes, his hair, his formalities, his room, his bed. Even the way he arched his back when he rubbed against his sides was sharp, clean, pristine. He turned around to where he was facing the bed, and inched between Eddie's legs. Bright, brown eyes looked back up at him--loving eyes, anxious eyes, scared eyes. Eddie always told him that he was scared he was going to leave him. Which that would never happen.

"Please tell me what's wrong," he said, his eyebrows so furrowed that they could've been smiling; light wrinkles appeared on the top of his forehead. He hated when he looked like that... so scared and anxious. He wanted to make everything feel better. Eddie was playing with the buttons on his open shirt, fiddling around with them, almost as if he wanted to button them up, so he could be pristine, too. This made him chuckle. It really did. Because, as much as he loved his little Spaghetti--he worried too much. A lot too much. Really. It scared him. It couldn't be healthy.

"There's nothing wrong, baby," he said, and it didn't feel like a lie at the time, but maybe it _was_ a lie. "Ah, you're so fucking cute. I could just eat you up."

"Do it, then," Eddie teased, and all the anxiety melted off his face, which made him chuckle. He leaned Eddie back onto the bed and drowned in his giggles and the bed sheets weren't so pristine anymore.

They were still bed, spooning, when his phone rang. He picked it up, half awake, half dreaming, and saw a number that was so alien and foreign but was still so familiar all the same. He got up, carefully as to not wake Eddie, and answered it as he took a cigarette out of the pack. "Yellow?" he said as he lit up and leaned against the wall. The person on the other line must've not thought his little joke was funny, and the smile got wiped off his face. They were crying. Silent, sniffling crying, as if they were trying to stay calm and calculated and _pristine_. He knew who it was right off the bat.

Stan.

"Tell me it's not true, Richie," he said, his voice strained like he was fighting back floodgates. "And if it is, I want you to tell me, I want to hear it from you, right now."

"If what's true?" He asked dumbly, which was fair enough. He had just woken up, so his brain was still trying to click everything in place. He heard Stan scoff on the other line, but it wasn't anger. It... it was disbelief. It was almost as if Stan thought he was bullshitting him.

"Don't fucking play dumb," he tried to hiss out, but it just sounded defeated and sad--and yes, he _did_ think he was bullshitting him. "So, who's Edward? Or Eddie, as I hear he likes to be called." Before he could even get the words _oh, uh, my boyfriend_ out, Stan had cut him off. "Rhetorical question, Rich. I know who he is. I know _exactly_ who he is. Bill told me." 

"You still talk to Bill?" he asked dumbly, again--which was strike two. But honestly, he didn't know how to respond. When Stan was angry, he could shift tectonic plates and throw around water from each every ocean and sea. He leaned his head against the wall, already feeling drained and terrible. He didn't think he could give him an answer. He owed him one, but he just couldn't give him one.

"His roommate? Really?" Stan asked, ignoring his stupefied question, and he huffed that scoff of disbelief again. "I've met him a few times. Even talked to him. Not a big fan of him. And honestly? I didn't think you'd be either. He's not really your type."

Then, came strike three. He said: "Oh, uh... Eddie and I live together now, Stan."

"Ya know what, Richard?" Stan asked, and from the wobbliness and even more strained inflection of his voice, he knew he had really done it now. "Ya know what? I'm not going to come over and shit on your happy perfect little life. Your happy perfect little radio show job, and your happy perfect little apartment that you live in with your _happy perfect little boyfriend._ Literally." Finally he spat venom. "Or is he your fiance now?"

"He... He, uh--"

"I get it," Stan said, and he was full-on crying now. "I get it, Rich. I get that he's perfect, and you love him, and he's happy and vibrant or whatever, but _am I really that easy to get over?_ Did I not mean anything to you? Us? What we had? What about--what about California? Huh, Rich? What about California? I bet you would take Eddie there in a fucking heartbeat. Because _he's_ not damaged. _He's_ not defective. You... you lied to me. I hate you for that. I hate you, Richard. I hate you. I hate you! _I hate you! I HATE--"_

He hung up. He felt numb. His head was still leaned up against the wall, but the cigarette in his hand spilled ashes on the floor.

He felt _really bad._

 

ii. He hated this. He hated that he made Stan feel this way--like he was the stars and the moon and the entire galaxy. He hated those titles. He didn't deserve them. Honestly, he thought he was a terrible person. What did he even really deserve?

Stan was right. What about them? Why didn't they talk anymore? He had wanted to just stay friends after breaking up, a mutual decision, he thought--they couldn't have that anymore? He wasn't hung up on Stan, he was just... curious. Why did he try to always tap into his psyche like that? _Did_ he deserve being his nice job as a disc jockey? _Did_ he deserve his and Eddie's nice apartment? _Did he deserve his nice little Eddie?_

_Did he deserve Stan's friendship?_

He laughed. Yeah. He didn't think so, either. 

You see, Stan had always compared him to the sun and the clouds and the starlight... But every planet has a different moon. If he was Stan's moon... that couldn't be. He didn't even think they were in the same solar system anymore.

Some planets had two moons. Why couldn't he just have them _both?_ Two people that he loved and cared about the most? His best friend, his _very_ best friend, his partner and crime. His little rose bush, his daffodil, his other half. His _better_ half. He knew that Stan didn't want his type of love, his deep brotherly love, his platonic love. He knew that Stan wanted that place in his heart, the place in his heart that he handmade for Eddie... but that's just what it was. Handmade for Eddie. And it hurt Stan.

And he hated himself for it.

It would be easy, right? Eddie could be the sun and Stan could be the moon, right? One of them brightened his day and made his heart all sunny; the other helped him see even when it was dark. When he feels sad or tired or pissed he could just go home and see Eddie's anxious, then cheery little face. They could sit on the couch and cuddle and watch Lifetime movies. And he would be alright again. When he feels sad or tired or pissed he could just pick up his phone and call Stan, they could be pissed together, they could drive around and laugh and hang out for hours.

And he would be alright again.

But he knew it wasn't the same.

Don't be confused--he didn't _blame_ Stan for anything. He never has; he never will. He didn't blame Stan for falling in love with him... he had designed it that way. And Stan had designed it so he would love him back. He didn't blame Stan for wanting to be more than just friends, like they were before, when they had love for each other, just as strongly, when they would ride around in his truck in the moonlight and he would shower Stan's face with kisses. But... why couldn't it just stay that way? Just friends?

Why did it have to be so difficult?

 _Because you made it difficult, dumbass,_ he thought. He even laughed at this thought. It was ridiculous. Everything about his life was difficult, it seemed. Stan had said that he hated him. But did he really mean it? He didn't... he couldn't. Could he? If he did, then he guessed he hated Stan right back. For being his first love. His first real love. Being able to steal his heart. Being able to make him cry and blush and laugh. Making it hard for him to leave.

But also because of the nastier things--when him and Eddie got into arguments (very rarely, but arguments just the same), and Eddie would cry and push him and tell him _Just fucking go back to Stan! I know that's what you wanna do, anyways! I get it, Richie. I'm hard to love and I'm insufferable and stuffy and naggy and controlling. You make that_ very _clear. I bet_ he _didn't make you feel like that. I'm sick of hearing his name. I'm so fucking_ sick _of it. So just_ _fucking go back to him and_ leave me the hell alone!

He would shake his head no. He would cry and feel doubly defeated and the fight would leave him and he would say _I'm sorry, baby. Eddie. Come here. I didn't mean it. I would never leave you. I could_ never _leave you. You know you're the best._ And he would hug Eddie and pet his hair and they would cry together and then they would kiss and make up.

It felt like he was sucking his emotions through the cigarette and puffing them out in smoke. He felt angry and sad and bitter. He wanted Stan to be happy. He really, really did. But was he going to let that ruin _his_ life? Would he let Stan ruin his life like he had ruined Stan's? Or-- ooh, get this, ladies and gents: would Eddie get tired of feeling like second place in his own fucking relationship, get tired of him, and then he would run back to Stan, who would tell him to take a hike because he had moved on? Is _that_ was Stan was trying to do? Kick up enough dirt to ruin his fucking life? Jokes aside, did he get a _kick_ out of that?

That was it. He was going to have to start being selfish. He hated it, but that was going to have to be it. He loved Eddie too much. He couldn't bare to lose him.

He was going to have to be selfish.

And that made him feel _terrible._

 

iii. "Are you sure you're okay?" Eddie asked when he had got back in bed. "You never smoke inside. I mean, are you _really_ okay? You're scaring me." He saw tears welling up in his eyes, and he felt _terrible._ He didn't want to hurt anybody anymore, especially not his flower. If he wasn't careful with him, he might wilt. He grabbed Eddie's wrists, pulled him in closer, replaced his hands on Eddie's wrists with hands on his waist instead. He got a smile out of that, which made him happy. Eddie had snuggled his face into his chest, and he put his head on top of Eddie's and was able to smell the flowery scent of his hair, his rosewater hibiscus shampoo. He always tried to act like he had it together, but Eddie _(and Stan)_ could always see through his front. 

"I don't mean that mean shit I say when he fight, baby," he said randomly, but he thought that Eddie needed to hear it. "I don't think you're hard to love. I don't think you're insufferable. Or stuffy, or that you nag too much. Or that you're controlling. You're none of that shit. I mean... what rude ass, _selfish_ shit to say to your own boyfriend, am I right?"

"I mean, I say really mean shit too," Eddie answered, and he looked up from his chest with slightly furrowed brows. "I mean, I don't think you need to grow up. And I definitely don't think you're pathetic, or that you can't take anything seriously, or that you don't care about me, or... or that you're hung up on Stan." And _oh fucking god_ did he need to hear Eddie tell him that.

"But you _do_ play a little too much though," he teased, and they both got a laugh out of that. He flicked Eddie on the nose, keeping up the good move, and Eddie squeaked and tried to push him away but he held on to his waist tighter. Whenever Eddie tried to fight him a little more, he pulled out his heaviest (and cheapest arsenal): tickling. He tickled his poor little Spaghetti until he squirmed and coughed and needed his inhaler.

"But you know I love you, daff--" he teased, but Eddie cut him off.

"Don't you _dare_ call me daffodil," he said as a warning. "You _know_ I hate that." But he knew that Eddie was lying, and sometimes lying was good, it was fun, it kept relationships fresh, he liked the chase.

Bill had invited him and Eddie over for a coffee date, and it was cute enough, domestic enough, so of course they went. Audra had made him and Bill coffee, and her and Eddie tea--Eddie hated coffee, and apparently Audra did, too. He loved his with tons of cream and frill and sugar, and Bill drank it black. He always did... ugh, he thought it was fucking _gross._

"So, have you been doing okay?" Bill asked, and he talked slowly, deliberately--but he always did that. There were no malicious intentions; it was something that his speech therapist had taught him, back in high school, so he wouldn't stutter. "I heard that you were trying to... you know," he dropped his voice down a few octaves so Eddie and Audra couldn't hear, "propose. So, how are you thinking about doing that? Do you have a ring planned out yet?"

He smirked. He knew Bill didn't "hear" about his plans from anybody--he was just good at reading him. He read him (pun intended this time) like a book. "Well, you're his best friend," he started, and he tried not to gush because the plan made him so exhilarated and nervous, "so you know that Eddie's not a diamond type of guy. I wanna get him a ruby. He loves them... Do you think he'd like that?"

"I think he'd lo-o-ve it!" Bill said loudly, and quickly, extremely excited too... then slowed down his pace again when Eddie and Audra looked over with amused grins. "Like you said, Eddie's a ruby guy. I think he's gonna _flip._ What, are you going to give him a winter wedding too, Casanova?"

"Yep!" he grinned. "So we can be a nice warm little hotel room when I take his garter-belt off. But we'd already be _heated up_ by then."

Bill laughed and hit him on the arm, and he laughed too, the color on his cheeks finally warm again. Not dull. Thinking about Eddie always made him feel warm. That's why he needed to show him how much he loved him, he cared, he needed him, how much he needed him. That's why he wanted to marry him.

But then he sighed and the color died down again and his stomach formed up in knots as he asked Bill: "So how's Stan?"

"Oh," Bill said, and the the juxtaposition between his firey hair and his pale face was alarming. "I-I mean... I think he's mad at us. Like the both of us. Really mad. He called me the other day and asked me how I was doing. I said, 'okay, I suppose', and he told me he was trying to date again. And he said he was going to call you too and rub it in our faces that he could be happy without us." Bill sucked in breath and squinted his eyes, his typical  _yikes_ expression. " _Did_ he call you?"

"Yeeeeah," he said, feeling very uneasy already. "He was crying a lot though, and gave me nothing but steam. And he said somethin' weird. He asked me about Eddie. Told me he knew that he was my boyfriend, but 'was he my fiance now'. How did he know that? Like, how did he know I was gonna ask? Coincidence. Fuckin' spooky, my guy."

Bill chuckled. "Well, you guys have always been on the same wavelengths. You guys always seem to know things about the other, even if the other hasn't told or doesn't even know yet. Like me and Eddie. You guys are just that close that it just worked out that way, you know? So maybe not coincidence. Maybe you and Stan are like... uh, I dunno, platonic soulmates or something."

Huh. Would you look at that. Platonic soulmates, Bill said. It was cute. He could picture Bill and Eddie being platonic soulmates; they had been best friends since elementary school. But with Stan... he wanted them to be that, too, but Stan had wanted that extra word gone. _Platonic._ He wanted to cut those syllabus down to two instead of five. But he couldn't give him that. Eddie was his whole heart. His sunshine.

The question still stood: why couldn't both of them just be in his life? No shit?

Because Stan wanted to be in his life the way that Eddie was in his life. And if he couldn't give him that, then Stan apparently didn't want to be in his life at all.

So he would lose his best friend.

That's what made him feel the _worst._

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
